


Simoom

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, NC17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is on the pull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simoom

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 24 hours for the Come_at_Once Community on livejournal.
> 
> Prompt from tjs_whatnot: "Of all the things I've lost..."
> 
> Look, there's a [playlist!](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCKcnrBehc_zzkmDuLxpbFhK4ETanqN4S) The first item I recommend as the narrator has the voice I hear when I started this story. Think of him as you read. 
> 
> ETA: cleaned up misspellings and wrong words, also now has a better ending.

~*~ COLCHESTER ~*~

 

John Watson is on the pull.

He prowls the crowd at Milk, lager in hand, waiting to meet a stranger's eye. It's the second time in this night for him, his first encounter with a blonde girl who was all sass until she had gotten him home, where she turned into a mouse.

He'd done his best with his fingers - she'd come, and come again - but his own expectations had been dashed. A blow job, and a bad one at that, had had him shoving her away and zipping up halfway through.

So he's frustrated, and not a little bit pissed off, because for fuck's sake he just wants a night to not think.

The music is drum 'n' bass, suitable for how he feels, heavy and aggressive, vibrating through his chest with intent. Milk is a single dark room with those multi-colored round lights spinning on the ceiling, throwing polka-dot blues and yellows, oranges and reds on everything. The wall-length bar on the left is three people deep; John knows he'll have to fight his way through if he wants another lager. Might just be easier to hit another club, see who else the night has to offer.

Sirens come over the loudspeakers along with Hollywood gunshots and everyone shoves John as they scramble for the dance floor.

"Ah! I been shot! I don't believe this! Can everyone just stop gettin' shot?" says the vocal.

John smirks to himself. Yeah, can everyone stop doing that please? That would be grand. He snorts in amusement, because whatever this song is, they've sampled the theme to 'Casualty'. A sign if ever there was one, a reminder of where he is and what he's really supposed to be doing instead. Fuck it, though, he's on holiday.

He takes a sip of lager, bobs his head to the music a little, scans the crowd. He sees them all, the rowdy ones who've had too much drink, the ones spoiling for fights, the ones on e's, loving random strangers with beatific smiles and loose limbs, the ones like him, looking for a quick lay and worse.

Half his beer is gone, he has to decide if he's staying or going when he turns and sees her, a girl near a match to the first one but a brunette, spilling out of her top. She smiles, makes a point of licking her straw before she wraps her lips around it and sucks her drink down her throat.

Well, alright then. John makes his way to where she's standing, between the end of the bar and the hallway that leads to the toilets. He's amenable if she is.

"Hello," he says, smiling back at her. "I'm John."

"I'm Lucy. This is Billy," she says, motioning towards the bloke standing next to her. He's a skinny thing with pink and brown hair who looks nothing like the Billy John was used to, and John doesn't even know why he's taking note except that this is what he does now. He's learned to take note of everyone and everybody, because his life depends on it.

"Enjoying the night?" asks John.

"It's alright," she says. "Music's shite in here."

"It's alright," he parrots, earning a flash of a sly smile. She has potential, he thinks. "This your usual?"

"Nah," she says, speaking a little less loudly as the music segues in Faithless.

John used to be good at this, chatting up birds in bars. Now he finds he just wants to get down to the nitty gritty, as the Americans say. He's never paid for a prostitute and he's not about to begin now.

But he just wants to get laid.

Preferably with the minimum amount of talk.

He glances around, completely loses track of the conversation, and by the time he turns back again Lucy is walking away. He stares, then realizes she's just heading towards the bar to refresh her drink. Billy gives him a nervous look.

John nods at him and finishes the remainder of his beer. He's looking for a place to put his glass down, because he's thinks he's done with this place, Lucy or no Lucy. He jerks at the light touch on his arm, mutters a Sorry at Billy.

Billy leans forward, says, "Want to shag?"

John blinks.

Blinks again. He shrugs. "Yeah, alright."

It turns out the hallway not only leads to the bathrooms, but the cloak room as well. No one is in attendance, so John follows Billy inside, closes and locks the door, closes the shutter to the pickup window, locks that too.

Billy's the same height as John, which would make kissing easier, if he wanted kissing. As it is, Billy pushes John up against the door and attacks his neck like a man starving.

Oh _god_ yes. Billy's hair smells like fruity shampoo and waccy baccy and even though John knows he's not going to get a contact high, now there's no way he's going to swap bodily fluids with the other man. No chance of him losing his medical licence over something so stupid. Billy gets his leg between John's and it's all on.

There's not quite enough friction for John so he takes Billy by the hips to angle him better. Billy's not having any of it, though, and surprises John by dropping to his knees and reaching for John's belt.

"Yeah?"

"Okay," John says.

Billy takes John's cock out of his pants and licks his lips, then gets down to business. Once he ascertains that Billy isn't going to do anything _untoward_ , as Clara might say, John drops his head against the door and tries not to choke Billy by pulling the thrusts he can't help making.

After a minute of pitiless sucking that has John gasping into his fist, Billy pulls off. John looks down. "Why'd you stop?"

Billy palms himself through his jeans, reaches back and pulls something from the back pocket. He holds out his hand and shows John a condom and a trial packet of slick.

_Right_. "Uh, sorry mate - "

Billy shakes his head. His face is flushed, his cheeks shiny with saliva. "No, I want you to fuck me."

Feeling the blush heat his face, John huffs a little laugh. "What, here?"

"Why not?" Billy undoes his fly and pushes his jeans to his knees, reaches inside his pants and strokes himself slowly. The waistband of his boxer briefs is black and says MOSCHINO, but the legs are Bumblebee yellow. "People fuck in here all the time, why shouldn't two blokes? Unless you haven't…?"

Billy's got a point, there. And it's not like John hasn't had more than a few girls in public places. He's never been caught, though he's come close. So to speak. And the consequences could mean his military career.

Billy's eyes go wide as John moves quick, taking him by the shoulder and spinning him into the rack of jackets. John whispers into Billy's ear, "Unless you're moaning, I don't want to hear you."

John grabs the condom and rips the packet open, puts it on. Good thing Billy brought lube, and John tears into that packet as well. He slicks himself up, then Billy - who, to be blunt, is looser than John expects. He doesn't know if Billy's already had sex tonight or not and quite frankly John's grateful he doesn't have to take an age to make sure he doesn't hurt the bloke. Anal tears are not something anyone wants, and just because he's a doctor, that doesn't mean he wants to take care of the man.

"Oh, fuck yeah," John whispers as he pushes in slowly, gasping at the tightness, the raging heat. He leans back a bit, watches Billy's anus stretch around the glide of his cock. John puts one hand on the back of Billy's neck and squeezes, puts his weight behind it and presses him down, down, down, until Billy has to use the bar of the lower coat rack to hold himself up. Yes, that's it. The position does something for Billy, too, who's reached the shaking and grunting stage.

"Don't stop!" cries Billy, reaching beneath himself.

John can't be annoyed that Billy disobeyed him because damn, he can feel his orgasm rocketing up through his pelvis, tightening his balls and god just a little more - ! He starts pulling Billy back onto his cock, bouncing the two of them together.

Billy's legs are trembling and from where John is holding him around his diaphragm, he can tell that Billy's breath is catching repeatedly. For a long moment all John can feel is Billy tightening around his cock and the vibration from his arm as he wanks himself, and then John is tipped up and over the edge as Billy lets out a deep, agonized groan.

John rests on Billy's back for a few seconds before straightening up. His heart is racing as he pumps his hips a couple more times, riding out the remains of his orgasm.

Yes, god, this is _exactly_ what he needed. He's starting to soften, now, so he grasps the condom at the base and pulls out of Billy. His own thighs are weak as he steps away to throw the condom in the trash.

He doesn't look at Billy as he pulls up his pants, refastens his trousers, buckles his belt. Now he just wants to escape back to Sebastian's brother's flat and go to sleep. Well, maybe pick up a curry and chips on the way.

First, Billy. With women John has always found it easy to leave in the morning. Or evening. Or afternoon. Women are out to have a good time with someone who's not going to take advantage of them, and John, John likes that a lot. He loves leaving a woman satisfied, satiated, unable to do more than roll over and fall back asleep with a mumbled goodbye.

Men are more finicky. Unspoken feelings always seem to crop up at the most inopportune times, and he's not really sure why. Talking about feelings is the last thing he wants to do with a stranger with whom he's just had sex. He folds his arms and eyes Billy from under his lashes. He clears his throat. "So, um, thanks. That was a great shag."

"You're telling me, mate," says Billy with a wide grin. "You gonna be in town long?"

John shakes his head. He can practically taste Afghanistan's dust. A queer little thrill of fear _(ANTICIPATION)_ runs down his spine. "Nah, I leave Monday morning."

"Too bad. Just think what we could do in a bed."

"Yeah," John says. He glances down at Billy's feet and notices a drop of semen on the floor. Oh god - yes, yes there it is. Several of the jackets hanging on the bottom coat rack are striped with more semen - he needs to get the hell out of here. "Well, I'm off. Ta very much."

John heads directly out of Milk, deliberately not looking for Lucy. He's not sure whether or not he was set up by Lucy and Billy, but he does know he wants to avoid a scene if a set up is not the case. Outside the air is crisp, the sky above barely visible through the haze of streetlights and traffic. He hunches into his jacket and heads down the street, deciding to walk back to Holburn Street instead of taking the late night bus. It'll do him good, let him burn the last of the alcohol through his system.

He'll sleep well, tonight. Tomorrow he'll laze about the flat or take in a movie, perhaps he'll call Harry and let her know he's back in England. He might even meet her for coffee, if she's not raging too hard at him once she realizes he's been here for a week already. He's lost so much of himself in Afghanistan, he can't lose more of himself to her, for she'll cut slices of him off to save herself.

John growls aloud, scaring the two drunk girls passing by, teetering on too-high heels. Enough! Enough. He'll take the next day for himself, do whatever the fuck he wants without guilt. He needs to refresh himself, ready himself to get back to Afghanistan.

Right. Back to the flat.

 

 

~*~ LONDON ~*~

 

Sherlock watched the woman step onto the pavement and look both ways before trotting across the street. She was definitely John's type - tall, brunette, attractive. Not a 'girlfriend', then, just a shag.

Interesting.

John didn't usually flaunt his sexual predilections in front of Sherlock. However, on the rare occasions that he did do so, he wasn't subtle about it.

In short, Sherlock didn't know what John did to those women, but whatever it was, the women clearly - and very _loudly_ \- enjoyed it. He would have to give more thought as to how he could get John to use those skills in more cases. Could John perhaps be persuaded to try his techniques on male clientele? What was the best way to ask - no, no there was no best way, he would have to be sneaky. Which was good, he loved being sneaky.

His flatmate bounded down the stairs, still unencumbered by the psychosomatic limp Sherlock had cured. He sped into the kitchen, casually dressed in post-shag old and faded jeans, tucked in plaid button-down, bare feet. "Tea?" he offered, filling the kettle with fresh water.

"Yes," said Sherlock, wandering in to the kitchen to watch John, who flashed him a quick smile. Yes, Sherlock repeated to himself. He frowned. John was usually fine with him asking questions about things he didn't understand, but this was personal, and sometimes John didn't like those questions at all. Sometimes those questions made him leave the flat for a day or two.

"What is it?" asked John, not looking at Sherlock as he put tea bags in cups. He put slices of bread in the toaster, then turned to face Sherlock. "I can feel you dying to ask me something, so go ahead, do your worst."

Permission granted. Sherlock leaned against the open door jamb. "What do you do to make those women make those sounds?"

"Oh jesus," John grimaced and rubbed his forehead. After a moment he shook his head, half-smiled, nodded once. "Are you asking me to show you?"

"Oh!" said Sherlock. This was an outcome he hadn't expected. John had been awfully quick to suggest it - ah. Because they were…friends? Or something else entirely? This was a possibility he had entertained in the privacy of his mind palace, that section devoted to unlikely-to-happen-but-what-if? He tended to dismiss that section, but if John had thought about it, too - "You've given this some thought."

John scratched the back of his neck, a fine flush creeping over his cheeks. He shifted from foot to foot. "I know you're married to - "

"Foolishness," interrupted Sherlock, waving one hand. He wasn't about to explain himself to John, John didn't need to know the awful, embarrassing details of his sudden sentiment those months ago when they'd only known one another for a few hours. "If you're asking, my answer is yes."

"Oh, of course," said John softly, looking at Sherlock with bright eyes. "Yes, alright."

"But John," Sherlock continued. "You _must_ end this nonsense. I cannot have these women tramping in and out of the flat at all hours of the day and night."

"Okay," said John staring at Sherlock with that same slight smile, his face soft with affection.

The kettle came to a full boil.

Sherlock didn't look away.

Neither did John.

The kettle clicked off.

**Author's Note:**

> SIMOOM: Arabic, from _samum_ , "to poison". A Simoom is a 'poison' wind that has extreme temperatures and can give a person heat stroke.
> 
> I don't have a clue as to when John was in the Army, so for this story takes place in 2000. The music of the playlist is what's playing in Milk as John has his...encounter.
> 
> I'm sorry I don't have a better ending - I just ran out of time! - FIXED.


End file.
